


Facade

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, M/M, Mental Illness, Mental Institutions, Murder, Psychosis, Schizophrenia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:32:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5145332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>an entry for a writing contest. won 3rd place from it. enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Facade

**Author's Note:**

> an entry for a writing contest. won 3rd place from it. enjoy.

Time was an unfathomable concept in the world he lived in. Nothing was ever confirmed or denied. Questions were devoured by the interminable abyss of silence, divulgence to reality viewed as a preposterous and rare interaction. Only the fortunate of the souls breathing in the pernicious purgatory were blessed with the privilege of having access to a window in their rooms. He didn’t know what divinity visited him the day he was admitted to that hell but he knew for a fact that the man who’d convinced him to accept the offer of living amongst people such as himself was an awful decision. He couldn’t understand how a man with such an amount of power could use it quickly to cause an agglomeration of nothing but evil. He had been beguiled by the assurance that the voices in his mind, despite their portentous ways, would leave him alone. He had been victimized into believing all the lies that were deformed to make his stupid brain think that that’s what was going to happen, that that’s what was going to make him better. No. Not at all. Instead, he had been thrown into an institute fit for perhaps a scavenging rodent or a shelter less bipedal accustomed to living with the obviously neglected, grungy floors, the horrifyingly contorted, molding walls, and the algid gust that seemed to never reach abeyance. Nonetheless, the conditions of the ghastly mental institution didn’t seem to bother the personnel.   
Schizoaffective disorder; a condition in which the affected experiences schizophrenic symptoms such as hallucinations and delusions. This disorder also includes mood disorder symptoms such as mania or depression. That’s what Apollo had been told, at least, when he had been diagnosed with the disorder. Sure, he didn’t believe it to be true, but the man knew that what his brain told him and what the psychotherapist had told him weren’t the same. Apollo wanted relief, he wanted to know that he existed in the same dimension as everybody else and if that meant putting himself in a hospital where he’d get the help he needed, then that’s what Apollo did without thinking about it. Little did he know, however, he’d be surrounded by people just like him; cadaverous in appearance, deranged and psychotic in mentality. As the man sat himself in the center of the decaying mattress, he ignored the wailing of the rotting wooden pallet beneath it and cast a glance upwards towards the ceiling as if he were expecting it to look any different than the last time his slate gray eyes studied the cracks. The monotonous colors and shadows that remained indistinguishable from the ceiling he’d inspected previously had shown only the slightest of differences this time. A foreign feeling arose in his chest. What looked like phalanges were digging through a certain dark spot in the ceiling of his room, and as Apollo continued to watch it eventually poked through. Contact. Another human. It was an incongruous sensation as it flexed its fingers and even more of it jabbed through. How it was even possible for it to poke through the cement ceiling, he didn’t know. It was just so incredibly unbelievable, and the man wasn’t able to keep himself from launching himself towards the arm. Glancing upwards, Apollo’s eyes scanned over the hole that had been created and as he reached up to touch it, soft noises were heard from above. Oh how he wished he’d be able to talk to the arm, to touch and feel its owner’s face and body. Just to know that they were real.   
Apollo stood on the sturdy part of the bed and grasped the hand. It twitched but tardily it clutched onto his hand, the grip displayed how desperate the prisoners of the concrete underworld were so deprived of the contact humans required for health lives. As Apollo went to the extent of nuzzling the hand, it suddenly pulled away. Eventually it returned, a cloth in hand. There were words written on it, and as Apollo tried his very best to distinguish what it read, he finally realized.   
‘Hello. I am Gael.’   
Gael. The satisfaction of knowing the name of this appendage in his room made him so incredibly happy. His heart beat quickly as he scrambled about his room in search of a utensil to reply to his new found joy, but it didn’t take long for Apollo to comprehend the fact that neither of them had any sort of tool to write with. Gael hasn’t used a pen or marker, the red writing was blood. Raising his thumb up to his mouth he bit down hard, the familiar metallic taste saturated his tastebuds. It would have to do. Flipping the piece of cloth over, Apollo lowered his gadget and began to write the best he could in his blood.   
‘Hello Gael. Im Apollo.’ Once it was finished, he went back over to the hole, the arm extending downwards to take the cloth. It was read and both were overjoyed. Their nonverbal communication protracted to unity for hours upon hours. It was a pleasant disturbance to their torturous lives. Both of them had memorized schedules as to when their companions would be dragged from their rooms. Whenever Gael was away for a long time Apollo couldn’t alleviate his worried mind, the mere thought of losing the precious contact causing him distress.   
When the man in the lower room heard footsteps above, he sat and waited for Gael to return and let his arm dangle through the hole once more. After some amount of waiting, a familiar sound echoed above and Apollo jumped up excitedly. Gael was back! He was so happy and after watching the gap in the ceiling intently, the arm draped down signalling that Gael was okay. Within seconds, though, it was ripped away. Loud noises of struggle resounded through the chasm and for a second he thought he could hear his name being screamed. The noises eventually silenced, and Apollo stood as still as a statue. No movement was heard at all. Apollo started screaming, or, screaming as much as he could with deformed vocal cords. Gael was hurt. Gael didn't drop his arm through again. All happiness in the man's gruesome life had been eliminated. No more gentle contact, no more comfort. His best friend was dead. Gael was dead.


End file.
